


À Mon Seul Désir

by rubycue



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, M/M, Omega Verse, Sentinel/Guide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 10:18:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2425094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubycue/pseuds/rubycue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a Sentinel - and an Omega. In order to be able to join the army, he takes suppressants and lives as a Beta. After returning from the war, he takes up work as a language teacher for soldiers. When a high-ranking member of the military is murdered right next to his classroom, Sherlock Holmes, Sentinel extraordinaire, is sent to investigate. Will he discover John's secret?</p>
            </blockquote>





	À Mon Seul Désir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cleo_Calliope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo_Calliope/gifts).



> This is a gift for Cleo_Calliope, written for the johnlockgifts.tumblr.com gift exchange! It's two months late and not finished yet. I'm extremely sorry! (Dishonor on me, dishonor on my cow...)

When John made it to work on Tuesday morning, he wasn’t expecting anything interesting to happen. Tuesday would drag by, and so would Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and then the week would suddenly be over, leaving no memories, but draping a curtain of boredom and pointlessness over John’s psyche. This was nothing new. It had happened every week since his return from the war.

As he unlocked the door to his classroom, he said hello to Tracy, who worked in the facility’s main office on Tuesdays and Thursdays. John came by four times a week to teach beginners’ classes of Dari to soldiers. He had a decent grasp of the language, but his main reason for teaching was the extra money it provided. His army pension was a joke about which John couldn’t laugh.

He was just getting out his notebook when he heard Tracy call his name. It sounded relatively calm, but the slight tremor in her voice gave away how upset she was. Not bothering to grab his bag, he hobbled to the other end of the hallway as quickly as he could. Tracy was standing in the doorway, wide eyes fixed on something inside the room.

As John drew closer, he thought to focus his sense of smell on the room, and what he smelled made hot, dusty memories rise up in his throat. The prophetic tang of gun powder reached his nose a moment before the cloying smell of drying blood overpowered everything else. John had to bite his lip hard to keep from zoning, trying to let his sense of touch keep him rooted.

Stopping at the door, he looked over Tracy’s shoulder and saw his fears confirmed. A Major, judging by the rank insignia on his uniform, lay in front of the desk, obviously beyond help. He had a gun in his right hand. It was pointed at his ear, and indeed a shot seemed to have been fired straight through both of his ears.

John closed his eyes for a second, then said, “I’m calling the police. Tracy, do you know who that is?”

Stepping away from the door and nervously looking around the hallway, Tracy said, “Uh, yes. Yes, that’s Major Clarke. He sometimes came by to get documents. He was always so friendly... I just can’t imagine he’d kill himself!”

John shook his head, lips pressed together tightly as he dialled. If this had been suicide, the weapon would not have been lying so close to his head. “The blood has dried quite a bit already. He must have died hours ago.”

Then, amongst the smells of blood from the office and cold sweat from Tracy, he informed the police.

***

Not twenty minutes later, Tracy and John were surrounded by one DI, a number of crime scene investigators, and a psychologist. The latter was a Guide, whereas most of the investigators wore police badges indicating they were Sentinels. At least, John thought, they were treating the case as important.

He had just finished giving his statement when on the other side of the building a door opened, and John’s usually mediocre sense of smell was suddenly drowning in the scent of an Alpha. It was so strong that his knees almost buckled, and he remained standing through sheer force of will. And yet it wasn’t as... pervasive and sharp as Alphas tended to smell, but smooth and welcoming, and John could feel heat starting to gather low in his stomach. He tamped down on it hard, hoping he hadn’t produced enough hormones to be noticeable yet. By all rights this shouldn’t have happened. His suppressants had always been reliable during the many years that he’d taken them, with only the slightest slips that had been easy to take care of and that most certainly hadn’t left him as shaky and weak as this one had.

He turned towards the DI, a man called Lestrade, to ask whether he was free to leave now, when in strode the source of his worries. A tall man, black curls, sharp cheekbones, and cool eyes, clad in a dramatic coat that made John feel like the man was coming to get him. Ridiculous and unlikely, John reminded himself, while forcing his breathing to remain calm in the face of this unfortunately gorgeous—John swallowed. Time to calm down. As his heart rate slowed, he silently thanked his army training for inadvertently preparing him for situations such as this one.

The man passed by him without giving him more than a glance, instead walking directly into the crime scene.

This should have been the moment for John to walk away. Instead he lingered, talking to Tracy for a few minutes and typing out a quick message to his students saying that class was cancelled.

Finally, the man emerged from the office and turned towards Lestrade. John’s attention shifted to them almost automatically.

“What have you got, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, folding his arms over his chest.

The man’s voice, when it came, was dark and rich as honey. “There’ll be more murders,” he said, seeming completely untouched by the prospect. John frowned, wondering how he could possibly have drawn that conclusion, and he stepped closer interestedly.

“Okay,” Lestrade said, “explain.”

“It’s simple, really,” the man – Sherlock – answered. “Even your lot could have figured it out.” And finally, there was a fault to this man. He was an arrogant sod. John wanted to feel relieved, but it seemed too early for that.

Prompted by an unimpressed huff from the DI, Sherlock went on. “I can tell that this won’t be the last murder from only two clues. The first one is the bullet wound.”

“Straight through the head, so?”

“It wasn’t chosen for practical reasons, but because of its symbolic aspect. It destroyed his hearing. This, combined with the second piece of evidence, is the decisive clue.”

John cleared his throat, drawing both men’s attention. “So are you saying that because hearing is a sense and there are more senses than just one, there’ll be more murders? I mean, there could be another reason why he was shot that way.”

And then, Sherlock’s attention was on him, his eyes roaming over him, hard and analysing, and John could only hope his suppressants would hold. He couldn’t risk being found out.

“An army doctor working as a language teacher? Bit unusual, isn’t it?” Sherlock smirked slightly. “Quite an impressive career for a weak Sentinel and Beta, but then you give it all up because of a psychosomatic limp.”

John felt anger rising within himself, but couldn’t let Sherlock goad him into that kind of empty-headed aggression. Instead, he gave in to his curiosity. “How? How do you know that?”

“Easy. You’re the teacher who was the second person to see the body. I passed by the door of your classroom on my way in. It was the only one that was unlocked and the schedule is stuck to the door, so I knew you teach Dari. Going by your limp, it’s obvious that you didn’t set out to become a teacher, but were wounded in action. You haven’t been back very long, the tan lines on your wrist haven’t completely faded yet. Judging by your behaviour on the scene, you’re not a strong Sentinel, certainly not good enough to be a part of the army simply by your talent as a soldier. Adequate intelligence, small hands, caring towards your co-worker – you’re a doctor.”

For a moment, John could only gape. Lestrade chuckled and said, “This is Sherlock Holmes. He’s an incredible Sentinel, which is why we work with him even though he’s a prick.”

John nodded. “Fantastic,” he agreed, but something was off about this whole thing. John was impressed, no questions there, and yet something about Lestrade’s statement made him stop.

Sherlock, while seeming to enjoy John’s word of praise, rolled his eyes and continued, “Of course, you wouldn’t have needed to ask that question in the first place if you’d just let me finish. The second clue I was talking about I found in the victim’s pocket.” He pulled a small evidence bag from his coat, holding it out for Lestrade and John to see. “A small metal figurine of a unicorn. There is one work of art containing exactly such a unicorn and also addressing the sense of hearing. “

Lestrade and John stared at him expectantly.

“A series of gobelin tapestries called The Lady and the Unicorn. There’s a total of six of them, five pertaining to the senses and a sixth with the words À mon seul désir at the top. Ergo, if the murderer isn’t caught, there’ll be five more murders.”

Lestrade was nodding. “One more thing though. What does Major Clarke have to do with hearing? His file says he’s a fairly strong Sentinel, but there’s nothing about him being particularly talented at hearing.”

“His files and documents are all faked,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “Look at his upper arm and you’ll find a typical tattoo soldiers tend to get while deployed. If you look more closely, though, you’ll notice that the tattoo was done with colours typical of Europe, and the lines are too straight and clear to have been done in one of the authentic locations soldiers favour. He’s not a real soldier, he’s someone’s ear in the military.”

Lestrade nodded. “I’ll have someone check that,” he said shortly and left to give out orders.

For a moment there was silence, Sherlock – Holmes – lingering for no discernible reason. Then John just couldn’t keep his mouth shut anymore. “It’s not that you’re a great Sentinel. It’s your intelligence, the way you observe everything. It’s fantastic.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped to him and John was quick to add, “N-not that you can’t be a great Sentinel as well. I mean.” He broke himself off.

After a moment’s hesitation during which John was mustered intently, Sherlock said, “Thank you, that’s... fairly observant of you.” He looked to the side as if embarrassed and cleared his throat. “Your pension must be quite small.”

John frowned. Where was he going with this? “Yes...” he answered hesitantly.

“And this job doesn’t pay too well either.”

“No,” John agreed with a small, bitter laugh.

“Well then.” Sherlock locked eyes with him. “Looking for a flatmate?”


End file.
